The Wedding Night
by ahiddenmask
Summary: Christine and Erik are about to married, yet Erik, the once most feared man in all of Paris, has never been more afraid. What will he do once the hour of truth is upon him? Taken from the ALW musical and the book.
I own nothing of Phantom of the Opera, the book nor the musical, nor the movie (thought I like to pretend it doesn't even exist in the first place.) This takes from the book and the ALW musical, and I hope you enjoy it.

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Christine awoke to the sound of birds singing their sweet morning song outside her window, and to the warm, morning glow that radiated through her room. She rolled to her side, a smile playing at her face, and snuggled closer to her pillow, wishing only to revel in the moment—the peace, the safety, the warmth and happiness that enclosed her, much like the silken sheets that were woven around her body. She took a deep breath, determined to lay in her state of bliss a minute longer, perhaps slip delicately back into the dream she'd been having, of wildflowers and laughter and sunlight, and yes, maybe if she waited long enough, he would join her.

She sighed, determined to stay in this moment of sanctuary…and with a start, sat bolt upright in her bed, curls flying everywhere as her blue eyes widened and her mouth dropped open into a perfect "o."

She was getting married today.

She was getting _married_ today.

And with that, Christine's slumber was gone as quickly as though she had dove into a fountain of cool water, awakened in every sense and vibrantly alive. She hurried to untangle herself from her cocoon of blankets and stumbled on to the floor. Throwing open her chest of drawers and pulling out her clothes, she cursed her corset strings for being so long and so demanding when her hands shook so fiercely and every fiber in her being wanted to run, run to _him_ and marry him, then and there, to end this maddening waiting.

Finally, she struggled her undergarments on, threw on the dress she had quickly selected and slipped on her shoes. Barely taking a moment to throw a comb through her hair and wash her face, Christine tore open the door of her room, nearly slipping and falling on the carpet as she rushed out, and hastened down the hallway, her skirts bunched in her hand. Sliding to a stop before the door at the end of the corridor, she took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. Maybe, perhaps, it would be her morning to surprise him. Wouldn't that be lovely, she thought, waking him this morning instead of he to her, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he slowly woke and then, the two of them, sharing the joy of the day to come whilst snuggled upon his bed, the bed that would be their wedding bed, the beginning of this, their new life, together.

Images of the happy awakening that danced in Christine's mind faded quickly as the door came all the way open and the sight that met her eyes was not what she intended.

Sheet music, unfinished scores, paper with mere scribbles and no distinguishable pattern were strewn across the room. A music stand that stood carefully in the corner by the window was overturned, spilling its contents onto the floor. The bed, normally so perfectly arranged after a night of rest, was disheveled, the blankets tossed onto the floor, the pillows having no sense of purpose and the sheets entirely tangled. It was as though some storm had come through and swept all of the order, the order he so carefully created and at times demanded, and had shook it.

Horror was beginning to creep into Christine's gut before she realized the deep swelling of song coming from below. The organ was playing, a dark and fierce tune. As she turned, smiling, to run down the stairs, the music swelled into crescendo. But, as she took the steps two at a time and raced to the basement, her smile froze and her brow furrowed. The music, lately so light hearted and filled with song, was now dark, angry, harried, as if the player was simply mashing his hands against the keys with all the force he could possibly possess, the organ wailing as the heavy notes lifted high and were followed by more of the angry, stressful tones. As she neared the door to the room, the music abruptly cut off, followed by an angry yell of frustration, the sound of papers being knocked aside, and a suddenly cacophony of mismatched notes, as if the player had banged the keys down in a final mark of frustration and was content to rest them there.

Christine sighed. Not again.

She was used to this by now, of course. Living a life of anger, resentment, abuse and loneliness did not simply disappear once you were engaged to be married. The temper of her soon-to-be husband had not faded immediately from his soul once she had moved into his life, though he often resented that it hadn't and, as a result, sometimes grew more vicious and short tempered because of it, cursing the life he had lived once before and crying out that he was so undeserving, so undeniably wrong for this woman whom he loved and loved him back so, often grasping at his thinning hair and releasing a torrent of words in foreign languages which she did not understand, tears dripping from his eyes until she caught his hands, removed them from his head, and held him as he cried, assuring him that she was there, and would be until the end of her days.

Yes, he was still often angry, and demanded solitude every once in awhile. But his anger never reached violence, and he was always waiting for her once she had deemed his solitude having gone long enough, and welcomed her back with a hug and begging forgiveness.

Recently, these fits of anger were few and far between, and Christine had begun to let herself hope that perhaps he would finally be able to recover from his years of torment, with the thought of their marriage keeping him warm and comforted. But alas, she thought as she grasped the brass knob of his lair, perhaps that was not the case. She stepped inside.

Erik sat at the organ, papers thrown about him, some crumpled, some blank, some with scribbles and others nearly fully compositions, with his back to her, his elbows resting heavily on the keys that had since ceased their crying tone, his face hidden in his hands. Though he undoutbly sensed that she had entered, he made no move to face her, instead sitting as still as a statue.

 _Well_ , Christine thought, _perhaps today won't be so bad._

And then she noticed the mask.

Though he sometimes still wore it, having grown accustomed to its presence, more and more Erik removed it whenever Christine was home, as a sign of his complete trust and devotion to her. She, of course, would make the habit of kissing him twice whenever she returned home, once on his deformity, the other on the smooth skin of his opposite cheek. At first, he had shuddered at her touch and retreated, unsure of how to respond, but gradually, as the days turned to months, he welcomed her affection, returning it with a gentle kiss on her forehead, her cheek, or sometimes, if he were feeling bold, her mouth. It had been a nice change, knowing that the trust between them was so solid that even his greatest weakness held no power over him while she was with him.

And yet, today, of all days, that _damned mask_ was once again in its place. She hadn't seen it for nearly a month and had assumed it was gone for good. But alas, there it was. Not only that, his thinning hair was now hidden under the brunette wig he had donned during their first meeting, slicked back and perfectly coiffed, again having long since disappeared, which only further completed the facade he wished to present: he was the Opera Ghost, hidden behind his mask, cold and distant.

 _Damn it._

Determined to have her wedding day a happy one, one with the man she loved, her best friend, Christine boldly marched across the room and laid a gentle hand on her lover's shoulder. To her surprise, he flinched, a habit he'd broken so long ago. The pit in her stomach returned, and she pressed her lips together, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder.

"Erik?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. "Erik, my angel?"

No response.

"Erik, my love," she tried again after several agonizing seconds of silence. "Won't you come upstairs and have breakfast with me?"

Nothing.

"I had a question to ask you," she continued again, trying to coax a response from him. Perhaps if she acted as though nothing were awry, she could convince him that everything was as it should be. "The seating for today. The garden. It's simply in shambles, I don't know what I was thinking, rose bushes…my goodness, what if they stab one of our guests?" She rambled on, playing the part of a nervous bride in order to stir his affection, his instincts telling him to calm her, to keep her from worry, as he often tried so hard to do.

And yet, not a sound. Not a sign that he had even heard her, for Erik was still, the only movement coming from the rising of his chest as he breathed in, faster than that of one at rest, his heart pounding so hard she felt it as it vibrated through his body.

Christine felt tears prick her eyes and she removed her hand from his shoulder. "My darling," she finally burst out, "have you forgotten what day it is?"

Finally, a response.

" _Forgotten?_ " Erik sprung to life, so abruptly that as he stood, the bench on which he had sat toppled over. "Forgotten? Of all the absurdity, of all the insanity, forgotten what today is," he hissed, never facing her as he wheeled around and stalked to one side of the room, facing his desk which stood in the corner next to an overflowing bookshelf. There, again, he became motionless, his back stiff, one hand clenched in a fist at his side, the other covering his eyes and he again hid his face.

Christine stood, shocked, as she gazed upon her Angel. Finally, she found her voice. "Well you can't blame me for worrying," she said, crossing her arms. "Seeing as you were not in bed this morning, nor mine, and here I come and find you, dressed in this ridiculous costume as if we were once again strangers!" Her boldness came from the many weeks of realizing that not only would her Erik never hurt her, but also that sometimes, the best way to reach him in such a state was to cut into it with a blunt knife, as reassurance sometimes failed her. Her confidence not only in herself, but in her ability to calm this man, had grown immensely since the days of the Opera Populaire. "It's not as if," she continued, glancing at the strewn papers at her feet, "as if we are not going to be married in a few hours time and we have so much to do, and dear Meg will be here with my dress before we are even prepared to think of what comes next and not to mention, my dear, that you were simply abusing this poor organ, and had I not arrived to stop you, you might have throttled the poor thing before you could stop yourself!" Her chest heaving, she finally looked up, only to have her breath catch in her throat.

He had spun around to face her, and it was his face that made her freeze. Dark circles pooled under the eye that was not covered by the mask, a sign that he had not slept a moment the night before. His eyes, normally fully of light, almost relaxed now, were wide with an emotion she could not discern, almost madness it seemed, and the color was simply vanished from his skin. The wig, once thought to be perfectly combed, actually lay across his forehead in sweaty, unkempt whips that he didn't bother to brush from his eyes as he stood, his chest also rising with the breath he caught to keep, facing her.

This was the face of the Phantom of the Opera.

Fear shot through her, though not a fear of him, but a fear that he had sunk back into his despair, his depression and darkness that, for the first few days of her living with him, had plagued his sleep with nightmares and fits of crying, screaming, so much that it brought her running in the middle of the night to his side, to wake him from his torment and let him catch his breath, before whispering _"Christine?"_ and capturing her in his arms, holding her until his beating heart returned to normal and she could comfort him back into sleep. It was a darkness that made him check, each morning, that she was still asleep in the house they shared together, for it made him doubt that she ever truly loved him and that she would still be there the next morning.

It was a darkness that whispered taunts of worthlessness, self-loathing, and despair that had haunted him throughout his childhood, which resulted in the scars, self inflicted, that danced up his arms and the burns that had yet to fully fade. It was a darkness that held such power over him that she always feared that he would never fully be rid of it, yet in the past six months of their time together that darkness had lost so much of its hold, so much of its strength, that she had begun to believe that he had succeeded in beginning to banish the darkness away, for she knew it was something he must do himself, not one she was entirely responsible for.

She took a step towards him. "Erik," she breathed, reaching for him. "Erik, my dear, beautiful angel, what is it? What torments you on this beautiful day, my angel of music?"

He backed up at her advance, his back pressed to his desk, looking at her through his widened eyes, wide, she realized with a start, with panic. Sheer, unadulterated, panic like she had never seen before. Sure, he had woken from nightmares in trashing terror, but the fear in his eyes was nothing compared to the absolute distraught horror that filled them now.

She crossed the room in a flurry of papers and flung her arms around his torso, burying her head in his chest. "Whatever it was," she whispered. "Whatever the demons said to you this past night, it was only a dream. I am here, my love, I am right beside you and I love you." She held him fiercely.

At first he stood still, not returning the embrace, and then abruptly his hands came to her shoulders and pushed her away from him, holding her at an arms distance with no signs of relenting.

"Go."

Christine blinked, looking up at Erik as confusion colored her expression. "Erik?"

"I said _go,_ Christine." His voice was haggard, evidence of his lack of sleep, though firm beneath the exhaustion. "I request that you leave me alone at once. I am in the middle of composing and I must have complete solitude."

"Erik," she began to protest, but with a gasp she found herself being steered back towards the doorway, firmly but without a pain, as her Opera Ghost shooed her out of the room.

"I must," he began as he started to close the door, yet as he went to finish his sentence he looked into her eyes. All of the tension left his body at once as he took in her saddened expression, her utter confusion, and yet the love that still remained on her face, the _love_ that she held for him yet he did not deserve, especially today. His shoulders drooped and his voice continued, haltingly, weak with exhaustion and repressed emotion. "I just…my dear, I need privacy. I must think…today, I…please, my love. Go have breakfast. I will join you momentarily, but, please, go." With that, the door shut with a snap, leaving Christine standing in the darkened basement.

Once the door was shut, Erik turned his back on it and gazed around his, now quite messy, music room. This room, which was below the rest of the house, held his beloved organ, deep enough below the rooms above so that, if need be, he could go in the middle of the night, as he often did, and play his music without waking his beloved Christine as she slept. Despite being the most uncommon, strange couple who had ever existed, Erik did hold a sense of propriety and, despite the fact that she often protested, had insisted she keep a bedroom of her own until the day they would be married. In doing so, he could slip downstairs without waking her, play until sleep or the sun called him upstairs, and go about the day as normal. Once they shared a bed, this would be a much more difficult feat, as he was certain he would never want to leave her arms once he was in them.

Once they shared a bed…

With a groan, Erik let his head fall back with a thump against the door and covered his face with his hands, rubbing his tired eye and breathing out through his mouth. The mask was cold and unfeeling against his palm, and with a swift movement, he removed it, tossing it aside as he went back to his organ and straightened the bench upright again, and sat down before the ivory keys.

He was getting married today.

He was getting _married_ today.

And not only was he getting married today, something he had only dared to dream of, he was marrying the love of his life, his cursed, monstrous existence, Christine, oh, his Christine. He was going to marry his Angel of Music, his muse. Once, long ago, he had imagined the life they would have together as he prepared for her the beautiful wedding dress he kept for her. They would be happy, he imagined, creating music and life and love and a family together, leading him from his solitude and into her world, which had shone so brightly.

Back then, he was unafraid to open his heart, display his feelings proudly for her, proposing in the middle of an aria and then whisking her away, forcing her into the dress as he assured her their love, which she had so denied for so long, would make this bond indestructable. He'd been bold back then, touching her with the finesse of a finely trained muscian, an artist, with all the control in the world, to bring forth the music within her. It had been easy, back in those days of the Opera, to believe he could take what he wanted from her, unaware of the consequences, certain that it was simply what was meant to be.

He had loved her more than words or even music could describe.

And then she kissed him, that night in the middle of his dark house underneath the Opera House, with that witless Vicomte looking on.

And the love he had felt for her, standing before him in her handmade wedding dress, was nothing compared to the love he felt for her afterwards, as she pressed against him, hugged him to her, and kissed him again, this time with more passion as he found his way back into his body and returned the embrace.

The love he felt then was nothing compared to the love he felt for her now.

It was that love that made him realize he could not force her to be here, keep her here, a prisoner, to live as his captive wife. No, he had to let her go, to chose what she desired, which, at the time, he believed would be the Vicomte, whom was dangling helplessly like a fly in a web. It was then he realized his astonishing love for Christine, which led him to cut down her lover from his punjab lasso, and set them both free, thinking he would never again see her, that she was off to marry the Vicomte, that she would never return.

But she had.

And now they were getting married, truly married.

And he had never been more afraid or unsure.

Erik placed his hands once again on the keys of his instrument, determined to get whatever was pounding in his head out and into the air, to think through his scrambled thoughts so that he could return to the woman upstairs, making breakfast for him, and listen to her ramble on about the roses and the garden, and not think about what was waiting for him that night.

But the notes did not come.

With a sigh, Erik stood again and began collecting the papers off the floor. Numbly, he knelt and gathered them in his hand, not paying attention nor caring about their order.

This was his wedding day. Tonight would be his wedding night.

Tonight would be the night he and Christine would united as one, something he had once sought after like a hound to the scent, a desire that had burned in him stronger than any flame, any song. He wanted her with all of his being, all of his body, mind and soul, yearned for her, to be with her, to hear her whisper his name on her delicate, rose petal lips, as he showed her, truly, how much he loved her.

And yet, it was this act that had the former Phantom of the Opera nearly beside himself with anxiety.

How could he, this loathsome gargoyle, this murderer, make love to such a pure, wondrous creature? How could he take her as his wife when he was so unworthy to even stand in her presence? Yes, once upon a time, he had been bold, almost seductive with his thoughts, his movements, and his actions, yet now, as the hour drew closer, that confidence drained out of him, leaving him quaking in his shoes like a prepubescent boy, frightened at the very thought of touching such a divine creature.

How could he, one who was so flawed, make love to someone who deserved it to be so perfect, so magical, when he was so inexperienced, so imperfect, so afraid?

This was the thought that had haunted him all the night before as he tossed and turned in his bed, finally throwing aside his blankets and music to storm downstairs and attempt to pound out his fears on his organ, not trusting himself not to break the delicate neck of his violin or snap the strings of his harp. And yet, the music escaped him and he had sat, brooding in his fear, all night long until Christine had found him.

It was almost mundane, he thought to himself, almost daring a smile, such a manly concern with performance. But beyond the performance, it was the disbelief that he could ever have such a wife, such an angel, in his presence.

With a moan, Erik collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor, hiding his face in his arms as the thoughts of worthlessness, his underserving nature, whispered into his mind.

Upstairs, Christine dejectedly scrubbed a dish and placed it on the drying rack. This morning was not going as she had intended, though she was determined not to let Erik's mood ruin this beautiful day, this day that was going to be the happiest of both their lives. There was a ceremony to prepare for, and attend, and participate in, not to mention a party which would be held afterwards for the few friends in attendance.

Sighing and puffing a runaway curl out of her face, Christine leaned against the counter and looked out the window into the garden of the house she and her Phantom now shared. For several days, they had lived together in the dark cellars of the Opera house, Christine leaving for groceries and necessities while the Opera Popularie rebuilt itself above them. Unsure of what the future held for them, and missing the light of day, after nearly a fortnight underground she had approached her fiancé hesitantly, unsure of where to begin…

 _"Erik?" she began, fidgeting with the seam of her apron while he sat in his favorite chair, the fire crackly merrily, reading the well-worn novel which was his favorite. Immediately, however, he placed the book in his lap and his golden eyes met hers._

 _"Yes, ange?"_

 _"Erik," she said again, and took a hesitant step forward. "My love, I have a question."_

 _Erik furrowed his brow, unsure of why she was so timid. "But of course, my darling. You know you may ask me anything, and I will of course provide you with an answer. What troubles you, my sweet?"_

 _Here she took a few more steps and settled beside him, kneeling on the floor and taking his well muscled, musician hand in her smooth, delicate one. She had always marveled the utter perfection his hands held, so perfectly attuned to the music which they performed. They were, without a doubt, one of her favorite features. "My love," she began again, taking a deep breath. "I must ask a favor…well, a consideration."_

 _Erik waited patiently, confusion still playing at his face but otherwise his attention entirely on her._

 _She bit her lip, and allowed herself to say the words which she'd been thinking. "My dear, I think we should move."_

 _For the moment, the only sound in the room, nay, the entire house, was the fire crackling merrily on, unaware of the weight of the words which had just been uttered._

 _"…move?" Erik formed the word hesitantly, tasting it before setting it free. "As in, out of my Opera?"_

 _"Yes, ange," Christine breathed, and hurried into her explanation. "My dear, you have no reason to hide beneath the streets of Paris any longer. I am here, by your side, now and forever, and I want to share this world with you. I know it has treated you so awfully, Erik, but I want to show you there is nothing to hide, nothing to fear, for I am here. Let me lead you from this solitude…and," she trailed off, ashamed. "And I miss the sunlight. I miss the world above. My love for you knows no bounds but I must confess, how I miss the daylight. I want to show you what normal life feels like, to share our future together, just us and…and our children…" here she blushed a violent shade of red, for children was certainly a possibility, but not one they'd necessarily discussed._

 _Erik, for his part, contained whatever reaction he had to the word in check, and simply gazed ahead, lost in thought._

 _Christine waited as the minutes ticked by. Erik made no move to respond, and eventually, she sighed and stood, dusting off her skirts._

 _"Well," she said, dejected. "It was just a thought."_

 _"Wait."_

 _As she turned to leave, he had caught her hand. Turning to face him, she was surprised to see tears brimming in his eyes._

 _"I am honored," he began, his voice breaking. Clearing his throat, he started again. "I am honored you wish to share this life with me, to have me above the ground at your side…I never imagined that, having you would also mean a chance at a normal life." Here he looked at her hand, clasped in his, and turned it over carefully, examining it with his all-encompassing gaze. With a smile, he bent and kissed the back of her hand with his malformed mouth and looked up at her, a radiant smile on his face._

 _"Of course, my darling, my ange, we shall move, and we shall move at once!"_

And so, it had come to pass that they had found a small country house, just on the outskirts of Paris, with a garden that ran alongside a small creek, with two floors and a basement and plenty of windows to let in the golden light of day. It had been dilapidated, nearly falling apart when they'd found it, but Erik was determined to make it work, and day after day he toiled in the sun, along with his friend Nadir, to rebuild the house to its former glory, making it livable and welcoming. With his architectural genius and his skilled carpentry hands, the house was completed in no time, and their move had been quick, seeing as neither of them had many possessions to bring with them. Though, that had been taken care of swiftly, as Christine went out and found whatever baubles she deemed worthy for the house, curtains and pillows, chairs and dishes, making the house more of a home than Erik had ever known, determined to make the house perfect for the two of them.

As she thought fondly of their move, gazing out the window, Christine became aware of Erik's presence behind her. Turning, she smiled at him as he lingered by the kitchen table, unsure of whether or not his presence was welcome after such an appalling performance. His hair was smoothed back, the wig in place, but he'd left the mask in it's place in the music room.

He gazed at her, searching for signs of anger, but was met with only love, if not a tinge of sadness, for which he could have cast himself off the highest building in Paris. Christine deserved only joy, not this saddness.

Christine smiled ruefully at her fiancé and, turning back to the stove where the kettle was now shrieking, she asked "Would you care for some tea, darling?

Erik took a step forward. "Please, ange," he replied. "I would love some."

She silently poured him a cup and he took it in his hands, warming his palms and letting the spicy scent of the tea waft into his senses. Together, they stood in their small kitchen, drinking their tea. Christine finished first, and went about gathering up the food for breakfast.

Erik swallowed another sip of his tea hastily, and went to stop her. "No, wait," he protested, "allow me. I can get it. You need not play the role of the housewife, my dear. After all," he teased, "we both know it suits you not."

"No, my love," Christine replied, pulling from his grasp and grabbing the remainder of the dishes. "I want to, it's alright. Go, sit, I will bring it to you."

Erik obediently went to his side of the table and sat, memorizing her movements as she placed the plates, silverware, and glasses on the table. She served him his favorite pastry, containing just the right amount of chocolate, no doubt bought in secret from the bakery last night, along with jam and other foodstuffs. She filled their glasses with fresh orange juice and sat, with a sigh, in her chair, her skirts pillowed out around her. She lifted him a smile and he returned it, entranced.

As he watched her, Christine began to think back of the night she had left him, a shuddering mess on the floor of his cellars...

 _Raoul guided the boat safely to shore and into the surprised mob which had followed her down to the banks of the lake beneath the opera house. It was there that she'd swore she was alright, uninjured, and requested only to be taken home. Shouts then came from the direction of Erik's lair, and horrified, she spun around, only to see the men returning, proclaiming that the lair was empty. There was no sign of the Opera Ghost. Meg followed shyly behind them, clutching the half mask in her hand. Christine approached and took it from her, her heart finally beginning to break._

 _It had been a long, long month afterwards. Returning to the Vicomte's house that evening, Christine again reassured Raoul, her fiancé, that she was well and only wished to sleep. In the days that passed, however, Raoul witnessed the girl he loved slowly wilting, receding back into a shell of her former self. Often he found her gazing outside the mansion's windows back towards the city, sadness etched deeply in her face. At meal times, she scarcely ate, and her health declined. At first he thought it was perhaps the shock of the events passed, and he tried to brighten her mood with wedding details, extravagant dinners, and beautiful ball gowns, not to mention a piano, brought in from Italy, just for her. But it seemed the music had died out of her. She did not sing, nor did she make an effort to return to the opera, or any stage, and, slowly, the truth began to dawn on Raoul._

 _He realized it before she did._

 _She loved the Phantom of the Opera. It was clear before his eyes and he had been blind not to see it the moment she'd kissed him on that cursed night in the dark bowels of the Populaire. She loved Erik more than words could describe, and certainly loved him more than she could ever love Raoul._

 _Not that she did not love Raoul. This much he was certain, that she loved him, as well. But perhaps the love she held for him was only a mirror of the love she had had for him in the years of their youth, that of a brother, a companion, a friend, and not, much as his heart had ached to realize, the way in which he doted upon her._

 _He was then presented with two options. He could pretend to ignore the miserable woman in front of him, who tried so hard to be happy, smiling and even sometimes laughing in his company, kissing him with all the tenderness that she always had, and lingering her head against his chest when he embraced her. But the Christine he loved was not the woman in front of him._

 _So, he could let her go. Let her return to the vibrant, talented Christine which he had fallen in love with from his box in the theater, hearing her sing once more, in the hopes that she would truly find happiness, a happiness that clearly did not lie with him._

 _Raoul made the most difficult decision of his life. And he sent Christine away._

 _Oh, she had protested, of course. Fought back, said that it was he, Raoul, that she loved and desired and was committed to, words he'd longed to hear but alas, knew were false. As she had stood there, trembling and confused, he took her hands, guided her to the couch, and sat beside her._

 _"Christine," he sighed, rubbing circles on her hands with his thumbs. "My Little Lotte, how I love you. I love you so, with my entire existence. But my dear," here he looked up at her, sadness painted in his warm eyes. "You do not love me in that way."_

 _"But I d—"_

 _"No, Christine. You do not. You love…you love Erik," he forced out, his heart snapping entirely. "You always have. I have watched you these past weeks and you have faded, Christine. You have faded from the woman I watched from the balcony. I know you better than you would imagine, and I know you are unhappy. I see the way your eyes look far away whenever you let your mind wander. I see the way you gaze longingly towards the Opera House and how you have lost your desire to sing and to create the music which you love so much. I am no fool, Chrstine," and here his voice, against his will, hardened slightly. "I see where your heart lies. And I could, for all I that I want to, keep you here with me regardless. But you see, Christine, I love you so much that all I desire for you is happiness. And I know that happiness will come, even if it is not with me." Tears had welled up in his eyes and he hastily brushed them away, looking up at Christine who, too, was crying. "Therefore, you must go," he concluded "Go, and find your Angel of Music, and seek that happiness. You have my blessing, Christine."_

 _"Raoul," she whispered, and flung her arms around his neck, her tears watering the collar of his shirt. "Raoul, I love you so much. You are my dearest friend." She sniffed, and took a shaky breath. "But, I believe you are right…I must go, mustn't I?"_

 _"Yes," Raoul smiled sadly. "I do believe so."_

 _Christine smiled shakily, and whispered "Thank you, Raoul. Thank you for loving me, and teaching me to love again. Thank you for rescuing me that night. Thank you."_

 _With an embrace, whispers of the lasting friendship between the two, she stood, and was no more._

 _She'd nearly mowed down any pedestrian in her path in her determination to return to Erik. Of course, the thought of returning to the Opera House had been dancing her mind for sometime, but it was the fear of hurting her dear childhood friend that prevented her from committing such an act. And yet, once he had released her, she ran with all of her might to his side, through the broken mirror in her old dressing room, down to the lake, where he had stood across the shore, no doubt hearing her pounding feet approaching, and welcomed her back into his arms, disbelieving at first but slowly coming to accept that his dream had become reality, that she had returned to him, and now they were to be together, forever._

Christine knew that, if he wanted to talk about what was bothering him, Erik would. So, after a pleasantly quiet breakfast, to which afterwards he retreated back into his music room, she busied herself cleaning the house and preparing for the wedding, which would be just before noon.

It would be a small ceremony, comprised of Nadir, Meg and Madame Giry, and Meg's newest friend, a small brown and white puppy Erik had found one night as he returned home, in whom she delighted and called Skip. Raoul had been sent an invitation, though the response had been a formally written decline from no doubt his assistant, relaying that the Vicomte de Chagny would be out of the country in Austria for the duration of the summertime. Christine, though saddened, was also somewhat relieved. The small affair would be much more comfortable for Erik, she thought.

Outside in the garden, chairs had been set up to create a tiny alter. The sun was shining, and the day was ready.

"Christine!" a voice squealed, and she turned, only to be run over by the tiny blonde, who embraced her. "It's here, it's finally here!" Meg trilled. "Come, come! We must get you ready."

Laughing, Christine allowed her friend to drag her upstairs to the vanity, to help her get dressed.

The guests had arrived, all three of them, and Skip was chained happily to the fence post where he could see but not disturb, contently chewing on a bone which Christine had saved for him. Erik hadn't replaced his mask, but stood uncomfortably in his best jacket. Nadir, who would be conducting the ceremony, sniggered as Erik shifted in his shoes, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"You act as though you're about to be judged by God himself," he laughed, earning a withering stare from his friend.

"And yet, that would be remarkably less terrifying," Erik murmured in reply, bouncing uneasily on the balls of his feet.

And suddenly, she was there. Christine appeared in the doorway, accompanied by Meg, dressed in the dress Erik had made so long ago. When he had first seen her in it, he thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. He was wrong. This was something else, for now Christine's face shone with happiness, her hair elegantly falling to her waist, the dress hemmed to perfection to hug her hips and fall around her like a waterfall.

Erik took a step forward, intending to run to her, take her up in his arms and kiss her into marriage, without all this pomp and circumstance. Nadir, sensing his friend's intention, grabbed hold of his arm and kept him back, though Erik strained like a racehorse in the starting gate. Christine walked towards him, steadied by Meg, and took his place beside him.

Erik barely heard Nadir's words as Christine gazed up at him, her blue eyes clear and full of happiness and love. His eyes reflected similar sentiment, though astonishment at his divine luck also danced in his eyes. Suddenly, she was whispering "I do," a smile playing at her lips, and Erik found himself repeating the words back to her. "I do," he gasped, taking her hands in his. "I do, forever, until the end of my days, I do, Christine," he babbled, unaware of the giggles from Meg and only marveling at the incredible thing that was happening this very second.

"Then you may kiss-" Nadir began, but was cut off. Erik grabbed Christine into his arms, lifted her up and kissed her, swinging her around in a circle as she laughed against his lips, kissing him back. He set her down, and she grabbed at him, kissing him again, deeply. He returned the kiss with as much passion as he could muster, as her tears mingled with his. Applause was tinkering in the background but Erik could only think of the beautiful woman, his Christine, his _wife,_ that stood before him.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. Music filled the little house by the creek as laughter also followed. Christine took her turn by the piano, situated in the living room upstairs solely for the purpose of entertainment, and played the soft music her father once taught her, Erik beaming by her. He accompanied her melodies with the sharp sighing of his violin, while Madame Giry and Meg playfully danced, Nadir joining in only after Meg nearly dragged him to the middle of the floor.

Then, abruptly, Madame Giry booted Christine from the piano bench. "I insist," she said, sitting down and placing her fingers on the keys, "that I give the bride and groom their first dance."  
Christine blushed. Erik held out his hand. "Madame?" he asked coyly, looking up at her as he bowed. Christine giggled, and placed her hand in his.

"But of course, my husband," she replied. Erik's heart swelled so much that he thought it might burst, and couldn't resist pulling her close and placing another deep kiss on her lips. Then, he swung her around, expertly leading her in a soft waltz while Madame Giry played a soft, romantic tune. Erik, not only a genius in song and architecture, was also an incredible dancer. Many nights had been spent by the fire, him twirling her around until she was certain she could dance no longer. Today, he seemed transfixed by her gaze, keeping his eyes trained to hers and whispering his affections again and again, so low only she could hear.

Nadir presented them with a small wedding gift, a delicate Persian rug. Christine immediately rose and kissed his cheek, much to his embarrassment. Meg gave Christine an elaborate jewelry box, small and porcelain, with a ballerina poised elegantly on top. When she opened the lid, soft music played. "Oh, Meg!" Christine gushed. "It's absolutely wonderful!"

"I too, have a gift," Meg's mother announced in her quiet, firm voice. She held out a paper, rolled up and tied together with a red ribbon. Erik took the paper and unrolled it unceremoniously, glancing at the page. He froze, his mouth falling open temporarily.

"Madame," he murmured. "How on earth…?"

"It was simply a matter of persuasion, my child," she replied, a small smile on her lips. "Ask not, only recieve."

Christine leaned over her new husband's shoulder and gasped. "Madame Giry! The ownership papers for the opera house!" She rushed to the older woman's side and threw her arms around her. The elderly woman was caught off guard, but took her in a gentle embrace. Erik rose, and planted a delicate kiss on her cheek.

"We own the Opera Populaire," he said in dismay, looking down at the paper in his hand. "My dear, I simply cannot believe it."

"It's wonderful!" Christine exclaimed. "Imagine, Erik! Now we can transform it back into the opera we always desired. Perhaps now, the world can here your talent, and know the gift that lays before them." She hugged her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Now, let us continue these festivities. I happen to have a simply marvelous dessert awaiting us all."

All too soon, the party ended, and Erik and Christine were left in the house. Meg kissed her friend on the cheek, a playful smile on her face. "Enjoy your night," she said mischievously. Christine shooed her out, and as the door closed, they were left alone in their now quiet house. With a smile, Christine turned towards her husband, as he stood by the fireplace. She approached him with a smile, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He stood still for a moment, and hesitantly wrapped his arms around her waist. Bowing his head, he pressed a kiss to her lips and lingered there, savoring her smell and the taste of her on his mouth.

Christine pressed against him, in an attempt to deepen the kiss, but Erik pulled back. He looked to the side, shame clouding his face. "Christine," he began, in a wavering voice. "You have already made me the happiest man on this earth." He paused, and sighed, his voice abandoning him as he struggled to find the words to say. "I wish…my only desire is to give you absolutely what you deserve, which is total perfection." He again trailed off, hopelessly. She watched him with those robin egg eyes that still, and would likely forever more, cause his head to spin as he gazed into them.

"Erik," she said softly, touching a delicate finger to his misshapen lips. "What's wrong, my darling? This morning, you were in such a frightful mood, and I can tell when something is amiss in your head, love. Is it again about your dream?"

"There was no dream, Christine," Erik replied, catching her hands in his and cradling them to his chest. "I…I must confess my dear." Here his neck and face flushed with embarassment. "I…I know there is a certain act…that must happen sometime tonight and…my dear, I find myself…quite frightened at the prospect."

"Erik, whatever could you mean?" Her voice was high with disbelief. "Do you fear me, and my love for you?"

"Not at all, ange," he whispered, pain evident. "But…my dear, you know I still suffer at the hands of my demons, from time to time. And…" he looked down, unwillingly to look her in the eyes. "I am not the perfection you deserve. I find myself hating my disfigurement more and more as the hour draws closer, knowing that you deserve to have love, and that I can only give you what I have, which is only what I know from observation, having stood in the palaces of Persia or atop Paris rooftops and gazed with envy…I wish…" What? What did he wish? For a perfect face? Of course, that was his wish since he was small. But beyond this. He wanted to be her Angel. He wanted to be the perfect thing that this perfect creature in front of him should have in her life, and his inadequacy, along with his very masculine fear of disappointing her, weighed heavily on her. "I suppose, my dear," he said finally. "I wish to be perfect for you, and I fear I may never be."

Silence met the end of his words, and he kept his gaze averted, fear thrumming in his chest. When she neglected to say anything for a frightening amount of time, he hesitantly looked at her face.

Christine's expression, had it not been with the utmost seriousness, would have been comical in any other situation. Her mouth was agape, her eyes piercing into his, her brow furrowed. She would have looked simply ridiculous, but Erik knew that she was deeply upset. When his eyes met hers, she finally spoke.

"My dear," she said, taking a step backwards and dropping their joined hands. Erik immediately longed for the warmth of her embrace, but did not follow her step. "Have you completely forgotten who stands before you?"

He grimaced at the sharpness of her tone.

"Have you forgotten," she continued, her voice rising slightly. "that I married you less than five hours ago and that I swore to love you for the entirety of my life, in sickness and in health? Have you forgotten that I love you, with all my heart and soul? Truly, have you forgotten?" Her scolding was nearly too much for him to bear, and he would have dropped to his knees and begged forgiveness had she not placed her hand on his bad cheek and murmured. "Do you truly think I give a damn about perfection? Is that truly who you believe I am, a maiden who demands the best?" She shook her head. "Oh, Erik, my dear, sweet love, that could not be further from the truth because I already have perfection, without having demanded it. I found it in you. I found it in your love, and your music, and our music. I have it now, and we will have it for the rest of our lives. Perfection is us," and here she grasped his hand in hers and pressed it to her breast, above her beating heart. "Perfection," she whispered, looking deeply in his eyes. "Perfection is this heart, which beats for you, and is so full of love for you. It is yours, Erik, and that you stand before me as my husband now is all the perfection I've ever needed."

Erik's eyes were once again filled with tears, and he leaned forward and kissed Christine on the cheek, resting his head against hers. "Forgive me, Christine," he murmured. "Forgive my idiocy, for doubting." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Though, I'm afraid it does little to calm my nerves."

Christine giggled. "Oh, Erik," she sighed. "I too, am nervous my love. Believe me."

"Yes," he replied thoughtfully, still leaning his forehead against hers. "I suppose you would be, rightfully, as it is your body which will endure the most challenge."

"Yes, I suppose that's true." Silence, and then, she spoke again. But now her voice was different. It was lower, velvet, silky, in a way that abruptly made his knees weak. "But, if it is your performance which you dread, let me assure you," she kissed under his ear and smiled "I believe you have all the right knowledge already, my angel."

Erik shivered. "Christine…"

She kissed him again, softly, a little lower down his neck. "After all," she purred. "Was it not you who held me so intimately the first night I came into your lair?" Another kiss. "Was it you who was so confident during our aria? What were the words again?" She nestled against his neck, feeling his beating pulse and his breath quicken. Erik was suddenly so alive with the feeling of her against him. His heart pounded, and his entire body ached with desire. "Oh yes," she smiled and kissed him again. "We've certainly passed the point of no return now…." She wrapped her arms around his waist. "When will the flames at last…consume us?" she sang quietly under her breath. The sound of her beautiful soprano voice was Erik's last undoing. With a growl, he pulled her face to his and kissed her fiercely. Christine melted against him, pressing her body into his. Erik kissed her hungrily, pushing her lips open while grabbing at her waist.

Christine's breathing hitched into her throat as she placed her hands on either side of his face, tracing the scars on the ruined half with delicacy. Erik's hand went up to meet hers, shaking, and intertwined their fingers. He moaned against her mouth "Oh, Christine." She responded only by latching closer to him, pressing against his erection in the most maddening way. With the skill of a dancer, he spun her around and pressed her against the wall, simultaneously grabbing her legs up and arranging them around his waist, so close to his core. She arched her back and murmured his name, and he dug his fingers feverishly into her waist, clawing at the long bridal gown she still worse. "Curse this confounded fabric," he hissed in agitation. Christine giggled and pressed her mouth to his again.

"Perhaps we need a more comfortable venue," she whispered.

"Quite right, my dear," her angel replied. "You are quite right, indeed." He kissed her hungrily again, winding his arms around her so that he held her against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he carried her, kissing her all the while, up the stairs. He kicked open the door to his room, the sudden bang barely resonating in the two lovers ears as they continued their embrace. Erik stumbled backwards and turned, pressing Christine down on the bed. She gasped, her hands moving to his hair, and whispered "Erik." His name sounded so beautiful on her lips; gone were the days his name was a curse. Now, it was the sound of desire, a plea, for him. _Him. She wanted him._ Erik's head was spinning.

Christine abruptly squirmed under him and pulled herself farther up the bed to position herself on the pillows. Erik stayed at the end of the bed, his hands pressed onto the mattress, panting. They looked at each other for a brief moment, before Erik quickly got up to close the door and light a gas lamp. When he turned back to his bride, he was both startled and pleased to see that she had begun to remove her stockings and was struggling with the bindings of her dress.

As quickly and silently as a cat, he was beside her again and halting her hands. "Now, my dear," he smirked, kissing her temple. "Why would you rob me of unwrapping the greatest gift I've ever received?" With surprising mastery, he quickly undid the laces of her dress and lifted it over her head. The sight of her in her undergarments made his breath catch and as she lay before him, her hair spilling around her and framing her face, he could only stare.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered. "You are so beautiful…my dear, you are simply astonishing." She blushed as he continued to stare, eventually leaning forward and taking his hand in hers and placing it on her waist. He touched her gingerly, tracing patterns across her stomach and skin, mesmerized by the beauty before him.

Abruptly, she pulled herself up and kissed him with sudden passion, pulling him down against her when she fell back against the pillows. As she kissed him, she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He helped her, undoing them deftly and shrugging out of the shirt. As soon as that was done, he began working on the remainder of her clothes. Suddenly, she lay nude before him and his mouth went dry. She looked up at him, blinking in her contented drowsiness. He sat back on his heels, still wearing his pressed pants, and looked her up and down. He could only take her in, the most divine form in front of him.

He crawled forward and kissed her, his hand coming up to stroke her cheek, shaking, much like it did the first time he ever laid his hands on her; then it was desire, but now it was desire, passion, love, and fear, all mingled into one. Christine pressed against him eagerly, cupping his face in her hands.

"Erik," she gasped against his mouth. "Please...I need..." She trailed off and kissed him again. That was the only invitation he needed. Erik stripped off his pants and began to run his hands down her delicate torso, as she gasped and wiggled beneath him. He kissed her face, and then her neck, and then began to shower her body with kisses, leaving no part of her untouched, even her most private of places, which was now warm with desire for him. She encouraged him with small gasps, pulling at his hair and whispering his name into his ear.

When he finally joined them as one, it was as if the whole world had turned upside down and all was focused on him, Erik, the former Phantom of the Opera, and her, Christine, the former ballet girl turned Prima Donna. Suddenly, it was only them, man and wife, no more and no less.

Their love-making was shy at first, clumsy, even, as Christine whimpered in pain and Erik fought his desires to completely ravish her body. But, as they continued, it became a dance, and as all partner's learn to move with each other, so did Christine and Erik, moving as one until the crescendo of their music, their bodies, and their passion exploded into one climax, together, crying each others name and clutching at one another, falling back onto the bed with a gasp.

They lay there, entirely spent, Erik resting his head on the chest of his bride, while they both struggled to catch their breath. Christine's heart thrummed beneath Erik's cheek, and his heart tapped a similar tune. Her hands came up and began to stroke the top of his head, while silence surrounded them.

This was true happiness.

Abruptly, tears sprang to Erik's eyes and, try as he might, he couldn't hold them back. They dripped down his face and onto Christine, whose fingers stilled as she asked "Erik? Are you alright?"

Erik, overcome with emotion, struggled for words and pulled himself up, resting on his elbows as he looked down at her. He opened his mouth to answer, but only more tears came. With a small cry, he grabbed her up into a hug and buried his face into her soft curls, holding her close and inhaling her sweet smell.

"Oh, Christine," he finally choked out. "Words can't describe how I feel..." He pulled back and looked at her face, not bothering to wipe the tears away now. "I never thought I would find love," he whispered, brushing her hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ears. "I never thought that I would know such happiness...Oh, Christine, you have given me such joy. Such love. You have entirely enslaved my heart, and my soul, and I promise, anything you could ever desire, I will give it to you. Christine, Christine." And he buried his face back into her neck and cried, harder now, entwining his fingers with hers. She wrapped her free arm around him and settled them back down onto the pillows, beginning to cry as well.

"Erik," she sniffed. "As long as I live, Erik, you will never know anything but love and happiness. I swear to it." Christine brushed his hair from his face and kissed his forehead, stroking his back with her hand while he let the tears fall, holding her close. "I could only ever want one thing now," she continued, as his weeping quieted and they both began to succumb to drowsiness. "I could only ever want you. Now and forever."

"Now, and forever," he echoed, one last sob escaping from his mouth, though he smiled, pressing his face against her and pulling the blankets over them. With a contented sigh, she snuggled up to him, and he wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. There they held each other, gazing into each others eyes, occasionally kissing, whispering sweet nothings, and giggling, as the oil in their lamps slowly burned down, and they both fell into a deep sleep.

Erik slept better than he had in all his life. No nightmares plagued him while he held his beloved Christine. Marriage, he was sure, was not going to be easy. Yet, he knew that night, his wedding night, that no matter what happened, he would always have this happiness, for as long as he lived.


End file.
